


Longing

by turtles_and_revolution



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel Needs a Hug, Dean Being an Idiot, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Pining Castiel, Sad Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtles_and_revolution/pseuds/turtles_and_revolution
Summary: Love was indeed the word for it. He didn't want it to be love. He didn't even want it to have a name. Compassion, friendship, brotherhood, camaraderie. Words he knew. Words he felt. But this was none of those. What he felt was warmer, deeper, kinder, stronger. What he felt was love. He couldn't deny that. He was in love, and he hated it.





	Longing

"Stay, don't, I don't care man. Just don't do anything weird." Dean said, turning his back to the angel. Castiel had appeared in the motel about ten minutes ago, unannounced as usual, but his sudden presence didn't phase Dean, who recognized the gentle whoosh and familiar voice.   
"Hello Dean." The angel greeted in his gravelly voice.  
"Hey man." Dean replied, sounding exhausted.   
And exhausted he was. A quick shower, a beer, and one very brief conversation later, and Dean was splayed out on top of the musty motel comforter, snoring softly. Castiel watched from the two person table in the corner, hands folded in his lap. He was fixated on the human, dressed in only his boxers. Castiel studied his scars, his freckles, the way his chest rose and fell as he slept, hopefully peacefully, but likely not. Castiel watched his face, his normally stern features now relaxed and soft. Like a painting. The kind of painting that stays hidden away in some attic until someone finds it during spring cleaning and hang it in the living room, only to find it's a Van Gogh or Monet. A hidden treasure. Just for him and him alone.  
Except, Dean wasn't just for him. The way he slept with any girl that so much as looked at him, to the way he seemed almost constantly annoyed by Castiel's odd expression and mannerisms. Dean wasn't his. In no world was Dean his. No amount of praying could change that. If Dean knew how Cas felt for him, he'd surely hate him. He'd be disgusted. As he should be. Castiel had done unholy things in his name. He was disgusted with himself much of the time. It felt wrong to care this much for this human. This man. A man. He loved a man. A man, that drank too much, and fucked too much, and killed, and fought, and stole, and so many other wrongs. Dean Winchester was a heathen. But, quite frankly, Castiel was worse. So much worse. So maybe he was simply wrong to fall in love with someone better than he was.   
Love was indeed the word for it. He didn't want it to be love. He didn't even want it to have a name. Compassion, friendship, brotherhood, camaraderie. Words he knew. Words he felt. But this was none of those. What he felt was warmer, deeper, kinder, stronger. What he felt was love. He couldn't deny that. He was in love, and he hated it. He hated loving this man that had called him a brother. This man that calls him family. This man that has the power to destroy him, but never would. He taught him to love, and hadn't even known what he'd done. He hadn't even known he'd done it. And that was the scathing bit. Dean had awoken something deep within Castiel, something human, and never knew. And Castiel wishes he hadn't.  
But he didn't really. He didn't hate the fluttering in his chest when Dean laughs at him. He didn't hate the way it felt like he was melting when Dean sang along to his favorite songs. He enjoyed the way his skin tingled when Dean touched him. He didn't hate being in love. Not one bit. He hated his heart in his throat when Dean flirts with some blonde in a shady bar. He hated the tears he fights back when Dean kisses her. He hates the pit in his stomach when he's left alone in said shady bar with a beer he can't drink and a broken heart. He hates loving and not being loved in return.   
Castiel closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to be in bed with Dean. His arms wrapped around him, his warm breath on his neck, their fingers interlocked as the man slept and the angel kept watch. Or maybe he'd be able to sleep. Castiel felt that even the impossible was possible with Dean. He wanted to reach out and touch the sleeping man, put his hand in the place he marked Dean so long ago. The hand print was gone, faded to nothing, but Castiel knows it was there once. When he pulled the righteous man from hell and he dragged the foolish angel away from heaven.  
When morning came, Castiel was gone. And Dean paid it no mind and got ready for another day. And Castiel, from some far away place, let himself cry over the man he should never have loved.


End file.
